THE praise which is every day lavished upon Virgil, Horace, or Ovid, is often no more than an indirect method the critic takes to compliment his own discernment. Their works have long been considered as models of beauty; to praise them now is only to show the conformity of our taste to their's: it tends not to advance their reputation, but to promote our own. Let us then dismiss, for the present, the pedantry of panegyric; Ovid needs it not, and we are not disposed to turn encomiasts on ourselves.

It will be sufficient to observe, that the mul titude of translators which have attempted this poet, serves to evince the number of his admirers; and their indifferent success, the difficulty of equalling his elegance or his ease.

Dryden, ever poor, and ever willing to be obliged, solicited the assistance of his friends for a translation of these epistles. It was not the first time his miseries obliged him to call in happier bards to his aid; and to permit such to quarter their fleeting performances on the lasting merit of his name. This eleemosynary translation, as might well be expected, was extremely unequal, frequently unjust to the poet's meaning, almost always so to his fame. It was published without notes; for it was not at that time customary to swell every performance of this nature with comments and scholia. The reader did not then choose to have the current of his passions interrupted, his attention every moment called off from pleasure only, to be informed why he was so pleased. It was not then thought necessary to lessen surprise by anticipation, and like some spectators we have met at the play-house, to take off our attention from the performance, by telling, in our ear, what will follow next.

Since this united effort, Ovid, as if born to misfortune, has undergone successive metamor

phoses, being sometimes transposed by schoolmasters unacquainted with English, and sometimes transversed by ladies who knew no Latin: thus he has alternately worn the dress of a pedant or a rake; either crawling in humble prose, or having his hints explained in unbashful meaning. Schoolmasters, who knew all that was in him, except his graces, give the names of places and towns at full length, and he moves along stiffly in their literal versions, as the man who, as we are told in the Philosophical Transactions, was afflicted with a universal anchylosis. His female imitators on the other hand, regard the dear creature as a lover; express the delicacy of his passion by the ardour of their own; and if now and then he is found to grow a little too warm, and perhaps to express himself a little indelicately, it must be imputed to the more poignant sensations of his fair admirers. In a word, we have seen him stripped of all his beauties in the versions of Stirling and Clark, and talk like a debauchee in that of Mrs but the sex should ever be sacred from criticism; perhaps the ladies have a right to describe raptures, which none but themselves can bestow.

;

A poet, like Ovid, whose greatest beauty lies rather in expression than sentiment, must be necessarily difficult to translate. A fine sentiment may be conveyed several different ways, without impairing its vigour ; but a sentence delicately expressed, will scarcely admit the least variation without losing beauty. The performance before us will serve to convince the public, that Ovid is more easily admired than imitated. The translator, in his notes, shows an ardent zeal for the reputation of his poet. It is possible too he may have felt his beauties; however, he does not seem possessed of the happy art of giving his feelings expression. If a kindred spirit, as we have often been told,

Gifts, for their lords restor'd, the matrons bring;

The Trojan fates o'ercome, triumphant sing; Old men and trembling maids admire the songs,

And wives hang, list'ning, on their husbands' tongues."

Critics have expatiated, in raptures, on the delicate use the ancients have made of the verb pendere. Virgil's goats are described as hanging on the mountain side; the eyes of a lady hang on the looks of her lover. Ovid has increased the force of the metaphor, and describes the wife as hanging on the lips of her husband. Our translator has gone still farther, and describes the lady as pendant from his tongue.A fine picture!

"Now, drawn in wine, fierce battles meet their eyes

And Ilion's towers in miniature arise: There stretch'd Sigean plains, here Simois flow'd;

And there old Priam's lofty palace stood. Here Peleus' son encamp'd, Ulysses there; Here Hector's corpse disdain'd the rapid car; Of this the Pylian sage, in quest of thee Embark'd, your son informed his mother he."

If we were permitted to offer a correction upon the two last lines, we would translate them into plain English thus, still preserving the rhyme entire.

The Pylian sage inform'd your son, embark’d in quest of thee,

Of this, and he his mother, that is me. "He told how Rhesus and how Dolon fell, By your wise conduct and Tydides' steel; That doom'd by heavy sleep oppress'd to die, And this prevented, a nocturnal spy! Rash man! unmindful what your

friends you Night's gloom to tempt, and brave a Thra

owe,

cian foe

By one assisted in the doubtful strife;
To me how kind! how provident of life!
Still throbb'd my breast, till, victor, from the
plain,

You join'd, on Thracian steeds, th' allies again. "But what to me avails high Ilium's fall, Or soil continued o'er its ruin'd wall; If still, as when it stood, my wants remain ; If still I wish you in these arms in vain ! "Troy, sack'd to others, yet to me remains, Though Greeks, with captive oxen, till her plains,

Ripe harvests bend, where once her turrets stood;

Rank is her soil, manur'd with Phrygian blood;

Harsh on the ploughs, men's bones, half

buried sound,

And grass each ruin'd mansion hides around.

Yet, hid in distant climes, my conq'ror stays; Unknown the cause of these severe delays !

"No foreign merchant to our isle resorts, But question'd much of you, he leaves our ports;

Hence each departing sail a letter bears To speak (if you are found) my anxious cares. "Our son to Pylos cut the briny wave; But Nestor's self a dubious answer gave: To Sparta next-nor even could Sparta tell What seas you plough, or in what region dwell! "Better had stood Apollo's sacred wall: O could I now my former wish recall! War my sole dread, the scene I then should know;

And thousands then would share the common

WO:

But all things now, not knowing what to fear, I dread; and gave too large a field to care. Whole lists of dangers, both by land and sea. Are muster'd, to have caus'd so long delay.

"But while your conduct thus I fondly clear, Perhaps (true man !) you court some foreign fair;

Perhaps you rally your domestic loves, Whose art the snowy fleece alone improves. No! may I err, and start at false alarms; May nought but force detain you from my

arms.

"Urg'd by a father's right again to wed,
Firm I refuse, still faithful to your bed!
Still let him urge the fruitless vain design;
I am I must be-and I will be thine.
Though melted by my chaste desires, of late
His rig'rous importunities abate.

"Of teasing suitors a luxurious train,
From neighbouring isles, have cross'd the
liquid plain.

Here uncontroll'd th' audacious crews resort,
Rifle your wealth, and revel in your court.
Pisander, Polybus, and Medon, lead,
Antinous, and Eurymachus succeed,
With others, whose rapacious throats devour
The wealth you purchas'd once, distain'd with
gore.

Melanthius add, and Irus, hated name!
A beggar rival to complete our shame.

"Three, helpless three! are here; a wife not strong,

A sire too aged, and a son too young.
He late by fraud, embark'd for Pylos' shore,
Nigh from my arms for ever had been tore."

These two lines are replete with beauty: nigh, which implies approximation, and from, which implies distance, are, to use our translator's expressions, drawn as it were up in line of battle. Tore is put for torn, that is, torn by fraud from her arms; not that her son played

truant, and embarked by fraud, as a reader who does not understand Latin might be apt to fancy. "Heaven grant the youth survive each parent's date,

And no cross chance reverse the course of fate.

Your nurse and herdsman join this wish of mine,

And the just keeper of your bristly swine."

Our translator observes in a note, that "the simplicity expressed in these lines is so far from being a blemish, that it is, in fact, a very great beauty and the modern critic, who is offended with the mention of a sty, however he may pride himself upon his false delicacy, is either too short-sighted to penetrate into real nature, or has a stomach too nice to digest the noblest relics of antiquity." He means, no doubt, to digest a hog-sty; but, antiquity apart, we doubt if even Powel the fire-eater himself could bring his appetite to relish so savoury a repast.

"By age your sire disarm'd, and wasting woes, The helm resigns, amidst surrounding foes. This may your son resume, (when years allow,)

But oh! a father's aid is wanted now.
Nor have I strength his title to maintain.
Haste, then, our only refuge, over the main."

"A son, and long may Heaven the blessing grant,

You have, whose years a sire's instructions

want.

Think how Laertes drags an age of woes,
In hope that you his dying eyes may close;
And I, left youthful in my early bloom,
Shall aged seem; how soon soe'er you

come."

But let not the reader imagine we can find pleasure in thus exposing absurdities, which are too ludicrous for serious reproof. While we censure as critics, we feel as men, and could sincerely wish that those, whose greatest sin is, perhaps, the venial one of writing bad verses, would regard their failure in this respect as we do, not as faults, but foibles; they may be good and useful members of society, without being poets. The regions of taste can be travelled only by a few, and even those often find indifferent accommodation by the way. Let such as have not got a passport from nature be content with happiness, and leave the poet the unrivalled possession of his misery, his garret, and his fame.

We have of late seen the republic of letters crowded with some, who have no other pretensions to applause but industry, who have no other merit but that of reading many books, and making long quotations: these we have heard extolled by sympathetic dunces, and have seen them carry off the rewards of genius;

while others, who should have been born în better days, felt all the wants of poverty, and the agonies of contempt. Who then that has a regard for the public, for the literary honours of our country, for the figure we shall one day make among posterity, that would not choose to see such humbled as are possessed only of talents that might have made good cobblers had fortune turned them to trade? Should such prevail, the real interests of learning must be in a reciprocal proportion to the power they possess. Let it be then the character of our periodical endeavours, and hitherto we flatter ourselves it has ever been, not to permit an ostentation of learning to pass for merit, nor to give a pedant quarter upon the score of his industry alone, even though he took refuge behind Arabic, or powdered his hair with hieroglyphics. Authors thus censured may accuse our judgment, or our reading, if they please, but our own hearts will acquit us of envy or ill-nature, since we reprove only with a desire to reform.

But we had almost forgot, that our translator is to be considered as a critic as well as a poet; and in this department he seems also equally unsuccessful with the former. Criticism at present is different from what it was upon the revival of taste in Europe; all its rules are now well known; the only art at present is, to exhibit them in such lights as contribute to keep the attention alive, and excite a favourable audience. It must borrow graces from eloquence, and pleasure while it aims at instruction; but instead of this, we have a combination of trite observations, delivered in a style in which those who are disposed to make war upon words, will find endless opportunities of triumph.

He is sometimes hypercritical. Thus page 9. "Pope, in his excellent Essay on Criticism (as will, in its place, when you come to be lectured upon it, at full be explained,) terms this making the sound an echo to the sense. But I apprehend that definition takes in but a part, for the best ancient poets excelled in thus painting to the eye as well as to the ear. Virgil, describing his house-wife preparing her wine, exhibits the act of the fire to the eye.

"Aut dulcis musti vulcano decoquit humorem.
Et foliis undam trepidi dispumat aheni."

"For the line (if I may be allowed the expression) boils over; and in order to reduce it to its proper bounds, you must, with her, skim off the redundant syllable." These are beauties which, doubtless, the reader is displeased he cannot discern.

Sometimes confused: "There is a deal of artful and concealed satire in what Oenone throws out against Helen; and to speak truth, there was fair scope for it, and it might naturally be expected. Her chief design was to render his new mistress suspected of meretricious arts and make him apprehensive that she would hereafter be as ready to leave him for